


There You Are

by Lusitania



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 5 Boys And A Lake House, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bonding, But also, Canon Compliant, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Harry, Hurt Louis, Hurt Zayn, I Don't Even Know, It's gonna be dark as shit, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Post-Zayn One Direction, S'mores, Stargazing, but don't worry, hurt then comfort everyone, i lied its actually not that dark, no beta we die like men, orcas, work with me lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lusitania/pseuds/Lusitania
Summary: James sees it first on twitter, because of course he does. It's Twitter.He's sat in a studio chair backstage and liking Ansel Elgort's post about an adorable puppy named Milo, set workers buzzing around him like flustered bees. Between makeup retouches and a call from Julia -something about Max throwing up at school- he happens upon the trending page and sees there at the top:1. Pop. Trending. #WeMissYouZaynJames blinks in surprise. Has it really been another year already?orThe fic where James Corden tricks Zayn into participating in a summer lake house vacation to hug and make up with the boys for their ten year anniversary and air it as a special series on his show, and Zayn struggles to deal with past and present demons along the way.
Relationships: Niall Horan & Zayn Malik & Liam Payne & Harry Styles & Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik & Harry Styles, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson, past Zayn Malik/Gigi Hadid - Relationship, past Zayn Malik/Perrie Edwards
Comments: 25
Kudos: 49





	1. Prologue: An Idea

James sees it first on twitter, because of course he does. It's Twitter.

He's sat in a studio chair backstage and liking Ansel Elgort's post about an adorable puppy named Milo, set workers buzzing around him like flustered bees. Between makeup retouches and a call from Julia -something about Max throwing up at school- he happens upon the trending page and sees there at the top:

1\. Pop. Trending. #WeMissYouZayn

James blinks in surprise. Has it really been another year already? He swipes from the top of his screen -revealing a lovely picture of his family, wow he makes gorgeous children- and sure enough, the date March 25th, 2020 shines back at him in thin white font. _So_ , he muses, _that makes five years since Zayn left, and..._ , he counts backwards, _ten since they debuted._

"Up," the woman doing his makeup orders, claw-like nails slightly stabbing his chin where it is held hostage in her grip, and James obediently adjusts himself to her liking. With his eyes closed and the precise brushes of powder across his cheeks, his thoughts begin to race, and from the unfiltered chaos, an idea begins to take shape. Perhaps the boldest idea he's ever had yet.

"Oi," the woman (he really needs to remember her name, right now it's just "German Drill Sergeant With The Wicked Hands") barks, claws stilling against his face, "what that scary look for?"

"Whatever do you mean?" James responds pleasantly. His grin shines like a row of radiant pearls. "I always look like this."

A perfectly arched blonde eyebrow lifts high, the curl of her thin, pale pink lips pulling tight with suspicion. "Always look crazy, yes. Not...this." She waves the brush around his face vaguely, then flicks it onto the tray where the rest of her weapons lay. "Ready. Now, you have show to do. Think kill thoughts later." She steps back so James can get out of his chair. His feet touch the ground, and around him the buzzing intensifies. It's almost time.

James fastens the button on his jacket, brushes a hand against his hair, slicked to perfection of course, and quickly checks his ear piece while another worker makes final preparations with the microphone attached to his burgundy tie. Someone counts down; three, two, one... and then he's on, sauntering up to his desk and waving pleasantly at the audience gathered before him. He makes his way up the steps, sinks into his chair, lays his hands one on top of the other, and dives right into a story guaranteed to make everyone laugh.

Today's going to be a fantastic day, he can feel it.

~*~

Lightning strikes in Los Angeles, and the subsequent _BOOM_ of thunder that follows rockets Zayn Malik from his bed in a mess of rumpled sheets and sweat soaked skin. He clutches his heart desperately, chest heaving for breath and counts out the seconds until he feels resettled in his own skin. Around him, the steady sound of heavy rain against his windows gradually filters back in.

He collapses backwards and grimaces at the instant sensation of damp sheets and other things unpleasant, but he's too exhausted to get up now and accepts his current position as a semi-permanent one. The room is pitch black, and to his right the batman clock on his nightstand displays 2:06 a.m.

Zayn groans, the sound just as weak and pathetic as he feels, and scrapes his hands across his face so hard that each line stings savagely. _A little pain is what you deserve, Malik_ , he thinks bitterly. His arms flop on either side of him, and he stares unseeing at the cieling. There's no going back to sleep now, he can already tell. He gives himself a few more precious minutes, and then twists his legs off the bed, immediately followed by the rest of his body. His steps toward the bathroom are silent, concealed by the ever-pouring rain. He doesn't bother with a light, he knows everything's location by memory.

After a quick piss, he washes his hands and brushes his teeth, feeling mildly cleaner when he's done. Toothpaste is great like that. Throughout the ordeal Zayn avoids looking at the mirror directly. He already knows what's there, and he doesn't want to see it.

He snags a towel from the wall and twists the shower faucet to the coldest setting. While it readies, he goes back to the bedroom and shrugs off his boxer-briefs, tossing them into the nearby hamper. _It's getting full_ , Zayn observes hollowly, _I'm out of washing powder_. On his way back to the bathroom, he checks his phone where it's plugged in. His wallpaper appears, free of any notifications and too bright in his too-dark room. Something like pain clenches in his chest, but Zayn ignores it, flipping the device face down on his bed and drifting back to the echoing sound of rushing water on tile. He steps past the glass, and closes the door.

Today's going to be an awful day, he can feel it.

On the bed, his phone emits a faint _bzz-bzz_ from where it's turned, illuminating a tiny square outline of light in the overwhelming sea of darkness.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you look at us and laugh  
> When we hold on to the past?"  
> (Hey Angel)

_It’s hot as fuck._

There’s a griminess to Zayn’s skin, that disgusting feeling you get when you’re not sweating but you’re _right there_ on the edge. 

In a white Range Rover parked a couple feet away, James's energetic voice can be heard, doing what he does best and giving everyone a laugh. The camera crew in the companion car is ready, a group of people waiting out of shot. Zayn stands to the right of them in the shade of a small canopy, practically melting through his clothes. He can’t tell what James is saying but it doesn’t matter. They’ll improvise when he gets in, like he does with everyone else. 

_Unless you fuck it up,_ the thought shoves itself forward ruthlessly and Zayn kicks it back. _No, I won’t. It’ll be fine._

James is doing a new segment of episodes dedicated to impromptu travels with celebrities. Although relatively new, six guests have participated so far. A few being Keith Urban, Lily Collins and Billie Eilish. Zayn is told that the creation of his episode is being kept secret because of Zayn’s notoriety, and they want news of it to spread at a time of their choosing. Zayn was one of the top artists in the world, former member of the worldwide phenomenon One Direction, stunning fans with killer vocals and killer looks. At the start of his solo career he pumped out R&B hits and proved his right to be in the music making game. But after three years and no tour, fans were getting a little frustrated. Did Zayn not care enough about his fans to give them a show? Zayn never addressed these thoughts on social media, only making posts about game ads or music tracks in the making.

After talks got heated over social media outlets and on the news, it was announced that he would host a mini concert list of six cozy venues for small groups of people. He attended five, and fans ate up the short performances. The sixth was canceled unexpectedly the morning before, and there was no reschedule. Disappointed fans accepted refunds for the very expensive tickets and went home. That night, pictures surfaced on TMZ of Zayn in the arms of an unknown man and woman, embracing them intimately outside the entrance of a popular club. Outraged that Zayn would insult his fans so blatantly, he was promptly canceled in the way that celebrities often are.

The backlash for his arrogant behavior was enormous, launching the otherwise quiet singer into the spotlight again, as his concerts were intended to do, but now for entirely different reasons. Zayn took to Instagram and Twitter to release an apology statement. Tabloids dramatized the photos with various different scenarios, each claiming their’s to be the true turn of events. The general consensus though was that Zayn recklessly went out, got drunk and shagged some randoms, and then he was too hungover to perform the next day. He lost 15 million Twitter followers in two weeks, and re-entered his previous radio silence. A few expressed their concerns for his health, but those comments were drowned out by ridicule and scorn.

Zayn and about twenty other people are waiting in the parking lot behind James’s building. The early summer sun beats down on him harshly from where he stands, stiff and uncomfortable in the fancy get up his team has him wearing, enduring last minute touch ups from three different stylists. One buttons the top of his scarlet red dress shirt, then frowns and unbuttons it again, pulling at the collar so that his necklaces are exposed _just so_ and his collarbone can stand out sharply, because that's apparently 'super hot'. The sleeves are artfully rolled too, even though they're hidden behind the arms of the black leather jacket laid over them. He doesn't get it, why wear sleeves under sleeves, especially in this heat? But no one pays Zayn for his opinions. Another is fiddling with his hair, biting her lip and carefully arranging select sections to hang over his right eye, then spraying something to set it. He feels strange and light, the sides of his head freshly shorn and the top styled in tasteful, voluminous waves of black-brown, jawline baby smooth and dusted with makeup. It's a stark contrast to the mop and beard he'd sported at home. Zayn feels as though he's stepped into a pretty shell that talks and walks and breathes like him, but isn't.

When management told him that James Corden himself had reached out to them, interested in featuring Zayn on his new show segment, he hadn't known how to feel. And when they followed that statement with, 'we've already accepted and begun to discuss specifics', those feelings only fluctuated more. Was he excited? Scared? Anxious? Nauseous? Days later and seconds from filming the episode, he still isn't sure. He just let them all talk over him, choosing not to think at all. Everything’s easier that way. 

Management's visit to his place after the announcement was annoying. 

"It's been too long since you've been in the public eye Zayn, there's only so much money we can make by ignoring the world."

"When's the last time you cleaned your place? Jesus, it's a dump."

"You're lucky you were born with a face like that, it's responsible for more than half of your profits."

"God kid, eat a sandwich. You look like a fucking skeleton."

"It'll take some work to get him ready for this again."

"Okay," Zayn had said to all of this. “I’ll clean my place.” “I’ll eat something.” “I’ll be ready for the show.” 

He vaguely remembers a time when he would get mad at their statements, when he would feel more than a whisper of annoyance and apathy. Emotions used to sear through his veins like molten lava, heat his entire body in a delicious curl of danger and erupt from his mouth in spits of blazing fury that disregarded everything in their path. He sees now that nothing good ever came of those flames. All he did was leave a world of ash in his wake, an eerily white world devoid of anyone and anything but him and the consequences of his choices. So he capped off the heat, contained it, and turned it into obsidian. Their words don't upset him now because he knows they're right. 

He's let his flat become a waste, he's a recluse, he's unhealthily emaciated. He knows he's not talented enough to maintain the fanbase he has now on his music alone. Most of them are die hard One Direction fans who couldn't be stopped by the arrival of a zombie apocalypse, much less a bit of radio silence from Zayn. He knows he needs this publicity with James to bring himself back into everyone’s good graces, if it’s even possible. He knows that he’s running out of chances. He _knows._

It's his job to put on the fancy outfit, to show a killer grin, to look up from beneath his lashes at the camera in a way that leaves girls on the other side swooning and pretend the lights don’t hurt his eyes. It's his job because out there in the world are his special people, and even though he knows there’s only a few of them, they still _matter._ Those people find something in his voice, in his lyrics or his face, that is monumental to their very life. To do anything less than the best he can for them is shameful, and he feels an inkling of that familiar yet foreign emotion directed at himself for his weakness, his worthlessness.

His fans deserve better. 

From his position kneeling at Zayn's feet, the third stylist finishes working on the intricate lacing of his combat boots and rises to his feet again, giving the black jeans a cursory look on his way up. All three stylists move back and out of the way, seemingly satisfied with their work, then lead Zayn over to the Rover. James is speaking animatedly to the camera for a moment longer. Seconds go by, James looks to his right at Zayn though the window, and he knows that it's time to work now. He glues a smokey grin to his lips, opens the passenger door, and joins the conversation. 

-

“Zayn!” James cries enthusiastically, reaching out to embrace him in a side hug over the center console. Zayn’s jacket pulls uncomfortably tight on his upper arm when he returns it, and he winces behind Jame’s hair at the pinch, hastily bringing the arm back down. 

“James!” He crows back, adjusting the sleeve, “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you too mate, wow. It’s been so long-” He cuts himself off with a shaky breath, holding a hand to his eyes and sniffling around imaginary tears, “Ugh, you’ve grown so much. Just look at you! It’s like sitting next to an angel. I’m unworthy.”

His wrists flap around the air for a moment and he continues reminiscing over Zayn’s apparent beauty. While he speaks, Zayn struggles to maintain the shadow of a grin on his face.

His lips move and his throat vibrates with sound, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying. James laughs and carries on like he’s done nothing wrong, so it must be acceptable. It was one thing to know what James was like, to prepare for it, and another entirely to be living in it. He’d thought it’d be okay, that _he’d_ be okay.

He feels distinctly not okay. 

It’s been so long since he’s done an appearance. Everything Zayn says and every motion he makes is being captured from six different angles in the car, and he’s hyper aware of this with every breath he takes. His arms sweat despite the cool air conditioning and his fingers twitch against his thighs, snagging in loose threads and pulling and pulling and _pulling_. His throat feels tight and he finds himself swallowing repetitively. 

He can’t fuck this up, he can’t, he can’t, _he’s going to fuck it up, fuck._

 _Calm the fuck down,_ he hisses to himself _, it’s barely even started._

When James guides the Rover onto the main road, his demeanor finally settles into something more serious. The switch has Zayn simultaneously relaxing and tensing at the same time. 

_“_ So,” he says, “You were dubbed the mysterious one in your time with One Direction, and it seems like that characterization has carried into your solo career as well. Tell me, what’s it like to be Zayn? What have you been up to?”

Zayn blinks.

_What’s it like to be Zayn?_

Vomit burning his throat, staining the carpet. Pills scattered on the counter top, tumbling onto the floor, chasing after them with shaking fingers. Sweat-soaked sheets. Salt. Crumpled up paper. Smudged ink. Graphite stains. Red paint.

_‘Marry me’._

_‘You said I dumped you in a_ text _?’_

_‘Zayn, don’t do this.’_

_‘Zayn!’_

_I hate myself._

“Zayn?” Harry calls, but no- it’s not Harry, it’s James. Right, he’s on James’s show. What had he said?

“Ehm,” Zayn fidgets in his seat for a second, looking out the window. “It’s prolly what you’d expect, I think. I write songs, I sing em.”

James rolls his eyes grandiloquently. 

“Well yes, we’d guess that. Come now, give us the details. Is there an album in the works, a lucky lady on your arm, any good movie you’ve seen lately?”

For a moment Zayn feels Gigi’s eyes blink on his chest, the ghost of her hair twirled in his fingers.

“No,” he laughs, “definitely no lady around. I’ve really just been focusing on my music, yeah? It’s ehm, it’s a bit different then you’d prolly expect of me, I reckon. I have settled on a title actually, that I can tell you.”

James makes an inhuman noise of excitement. “Oh my! The fans are getting spoiled today aren’t they. Alright Zaynie, lay it on us.”

“It’s _Kryptonite_.

“Ooo, how _exciting!”_

“Ha, thanks, it’s nowhere near done yet, but yeah, that’s the title.”

 _“_ Very cool, very cool. What’s the vibe, something like _Mind of Mine, Icarus Falls_? Something completely different? Just give us a smidgen to speculate over until it releases.”

Zayn thinks for a moment. “It’s different, but not- like, it’s hard to say. I don’t think of them as one kind of thing, right? I just get in a mood, write the words, and then I put them together on a track. So like, with this one, I’ve got this one song where the music is just some low key beats, some guitar, very easy. And on another one I actually got to collaborate with someone super cool, a rapper, and there’s all this like, techno-y background music. I won’t say more than that, but yeah- I’m excited to see what everyone thinks about it when it comes out. Oh! Which won’t be for a _while_. So don’t get too excited.”

 _How eloquent_ , the voice inside him sneers. 

“I can’t wait to check it out!” James cheers. “Now, on the note of your music, why don’t we listen to some of your other stuff.”

He reaches up to fiddle with the stereo for a second, then LIKE I WOULD is booming through the speakers.

 _Right_ , Zayn thinks, _he’s realized I can’t talk for shit_. Okay, it’s fine, that’s good. James is showing him mercy. This, he should be better able to handle. Holding tight to that thought, Zayn closes his eyes, takes a breath, and sings. 

“ _H_ _ey what’s up it’s been a while.”_

-

They sing four songs throughout the drive: LIKE I WOULD, Dusk Till Dawn, Pillowtalk, and TiO. James had prepared special outfits and props for each, so they went through an assortment of ostentatious sunglasses, enormous jewelry, and an elaborate set of black leather harnesses that looked like something ripped out of a kinky club outfit. They had to pull over and changed into them outside real quick, and the people in the companion car had to help Zayn into his. It allowed him to take off the stupid jacket, and he had to admit the get up was quite striking against the red of his shirt. Once TiO started up, James had been so ridiculous that Zayn actually found himself laughing multiple times. It was nice. Between each song James continued asking questions, but they weren’t so bad. How are his sisters, his mom, what’s his favorite thing to do at home, silly would-you-rather questions. 

“Would you rather talk to land animals, animals that fly, or animals that live underwater?”

“Oh, land animals, for sure. Just think like, having a conversation with a lion. That’d be absolutely wicked.”

“Would you rather give up all drinks except for water or give up eating anything that was cooked in an oven?”

“All drinks but water! As if I could live without tasting my mom’s cooking.”

“Would you rather be forced to dance every time you heard music or be forced to sing along to any song you heard?”

“Oh _god_ , sing. Definitely sing.”

And so on, and so on. At some point Zayn realized he’d stopped ripping his pants and was gesticulating with his hands instead. Then he was even more surprised to realize he wasn't holding the smile up on purpose anymore. He was having _fun._

 _Shit,_ he muses, _I’m actually not doing so bad._

But in the middle of singing sHe, things change.

Zayn knew this adventure was going to be about a thirty minute ride around town, where he and James would sing some of his songs and then he’d be surprised with whatever destination they choose for him, proceeding to do some sort of activity with James there. In James’s episode with Lily Collins, they spent an hour walking along the Murphy Ranch Trail and doing photoshoots at different locations along the way. Zayn had hoped his episode would be nothing like that, he was in no mood to stay outside in the sun for longer than strictly necessary, much less walk for miles and be expected to look pretty in pictures.

“ _She wants somebody to love, to-_ wait.”

Zayn starts in his chair, twisting back to look at the sign they’d just driven under.

James stops singing too, looking at Zayn with a manic twinkle in his eyes and a too-wide grin.

“You’re joking,” Zayn says incredulously. James looks away and starts singing the song again.

“ _In the right way, in the, in the, in the right way._ ”

“James?”

“ _In the right way, in the right way!_ ”

“James where are we going?”

Zayn’s pleas go unanswered, and for the next minute James belts out the lyrics at a horrendous pitch and Zayn’s heart begins doing flips behind his ribs while he looks frantically out the windows.

They pass beneath a set of bright blue signs declaring ‘Arriving Flights/Departing Flights.”

They head down the departing lane.

The song has switched to Entertainer now, but only James is singing.

He drives them around the building, makes a few turns, then brings them across a long stretch of concrete to where a pristine white jet awaits. He puts the car in park and turns to Zayn, grabbing both his hands and holding them up between them. Ludicrously, Zayn wonders if he’s disgusted by how wet they are. 

“I am not joking,” James announces. “We’re doing something a little bit different for you in this episode.” A deep, dramatic breath. “Thank you for the splendid ride Mr. Malik… I won’t be joining you.” 

Zayn’s door is yanked open behind him with a blast of confetti and he screams, heart lodged in his throat. A giant of a man in a rainbow tutu is gyrating wildly and aiming air horns into Zayn’s ear. In the same second that he reflexively jumps away from him, the seatbelt yanks him back into the seat so hard his head slams back into the headrest. The car begins shaking, and he worries that he’s actually given himself brain damage, but no, another man is jumping on the windshield and screeching at him nonsensically through a horse-head mask. Zayn blinks and the horse-man is leaping off the hood, Naruto-running down the runway and screeching the whole time. The shock fades to embarrassed-awed-confusion. Zayn had trapped James’s hands in a death grip, but now he releases them and slumps over the dash, burying his head in his hands and groaning miserably. James is laughing hysterically in the driver’s seat beside him.

“This is my assistant,” James declares, gesturing proudly towards the gyrating man who opened Zayn’s door. Now that he can breathe, Zayn peeks from between his arms and notices the tutu guy has a thick black mustache and the name tag _Mamacita_ pinned crookedly to his flamingo tank-top. He’s frozen in a power stance, holding an air horn to the sky. “He will accompany you to your flight and ensure that you board safely.” Around him, the crew from the companion car is darting around, laughing amongst themselves at the successful prank. They probably got his embarrassing reaction from a hundred different angles. And now they’re… packing up?

James loops around the car, unbuckles Zayn and pulls him from the Rover, shoving a threadbare beanie over his carefully gelled hair and black ray bans upside down on his nose. Behind them, Mamacita is removing various suitcases and bags from the back of the car -had those been there the whole time?. Anxiety is starting to build in his chest. One of the cameramen gets close to Zayn’s face, filming him. He doesn’t understand, no one in the other episodes ever traveled outside of California. Isn’t that like, a big deal?

“Is this allowed?” 

“Why of course, it’s not like you're exactly busy these days.” Zayn starts. _Is that a dig?_ “And your management crew was delightful when we spoke over the phone. Everything has been sorted to the T.” James slaps a meaty hand on Zayn’s shoulder and looks him dead in the eyes. The grin on his face is absolutely terrifying. “Trust me, you’re going to love it.” Then he promptly climbs back behind the wheel and waves from the window. “Toodaloo!” 

Both cars speed away.

In the distance, the man with the horse mask is still running down the track.

Zayn stares, uncomprehending. Mamacita climbs back down the stairs, apparently done loading the plane. He, Zayn, and the same cameraman that was in his face earlier stand around a pile of bags on the runway. Everything is suddenly eerily, uncomfortably quiet, despite the loud rumble of plane engines around them. Mamacita makes the first move, stepping up to Zayn and looking down at him pityingly. He flips the glasses on Zayn’s face right side up. “Come on now son,” he says, and his voice is a rumbling southern american drawl so pronounced that Zayn just- gives up on higher thought processes, “‘dat plane’s fixin’ to take off real soon, you’d best be on’t.” 

“But- what? He’s just leaving?”

A nod. 

“That didn’t happen in any of the other episodes! How’s it an episode for the James Corden show if James Corden isn’t like, in it?”

“It’s a special episode.”

“ _How?_ ”

“Well that would ruin the surprise wouldn't it?”

The old Zayn would’ve fumed and put his foot in the ground, refusing to move until he gets answers. The current Zayn just grinds his teeth and lets the fight bleed out of him.

“Please,” he tries, “please tell me something about what’s going on. I don’t like walking into this blind. I have problems with-” He abruptly remembers the camera focused on his face, “I mean, I have responsibilities that James may not have accounted for.” _Shit, there’s no way he didn't catch that._

Nothing makes sense anymore. Not this man, not this situation, not his life. He needs to contact management, needs to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do. What if this is a prank? That’s something James would do. Zayn grabs his phone and swipes the screen awake. On it, two notifications from management already await him. ‘ _It’s not a prank_ .’ the first reads, sent three minutes ago, and the other, ‘ _Just go with it Zayn_.’ Mamacita reads them too, and smiles reassuringly. He’s missing a front tooth. “You see? ‘sall fine and dandy. You just go on already.” He pushes Zayn’s back gently towards the stairs and the cameraman follows, lens near Zayn’s face like a creepy, shiny shadow. They’re halfway up when he realizes- Mamacita isn’t following him. 

Zayn stops and the cameraman bumps into his back with a disgruntled squak. 

“You’re not coming?” 

“ ‘fraid not son, I’m here for purely comedic purposes.” He points meaningfully at the cameraman tailing Zayn, and strikes a pose. “Give the people a laugh before scene break.” 

Zayn gulps, glancing at the camera again, then back at Mamacita. 

“Um, thank you?”

Mamacita nods, smiles, and turns about in a rainbow flurry.

The cameraman stares at Zayn meaningfully.

“Oh” he starts, “Right, sorry.” He clambers up the rest of the steps and into the very nice plane. It’s empty except for a single stewardess and a pilot. The stewardess greets them with a big, nervous grin and a tiny wave, then clasps her hands in front of her again. The pilot gives a curt nod, then retreats to the cockpit and begins flicking controls. The cameraman promptly takes a seat on the nearest chair and continues looking at Zayn. He hasn’t said a word. Feeling lost, Zayn walks to the back and slots himself into a window seat. The cameraman points the lens at him the whole way, and as soon as Zayn sits he tilts the device away and sets it in his lap, settling into his seat in a way that Zayn can no longer see him. Feeling relieved to have prying eyes removed, Zayn rips the stupid hat and glasses off and relaxes into his own seat. He leans his head against the porthole and watches the stairs get pulled up to the plane with a whir. Once they’re up, the stewardess closes the door, then approaches Zayn. He glances at her name tag and sees _Liam_ , but a closer look reveals it to actually be _Lillian_. 

“Hello,” she says. She has a kind voice, Zayn observes, and kind brown eyes. Each is covered in subtle makeup and surrounded by the faint creases of laugh lines. 

“Hullo,” he returns, just as quiet. Whatever's happening to him isn't her fault, she doesn't deserve his ire.

Lillian brings forward a brochure and sample safety devices, efficiently describing how they work and the circumstances that necessitate them, as her job dictates. Zayn listens patiently. When she finishes the brief demonstration, she sets the pieces aside and sits at the chair across the aisle from him. 

“I heard they’re doing this as some big surprise for you, it must be quite confusing.”

Zayn shuffles around to face her too. “It is,” he says, unable to completely keep his irritation at the whole situation out of his voice. She smiles sympathetically. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t tell you much, but this flight will last about two and a half hours. Can I get you anything? We’ve a small variety of refreshments, snacks and some magazines if you’d like.”

“Water, please. And that’s ok, I’ll just use my phone. Thank you though.”

Lillian nods, then elegantly rises from her seat. As soon as she steps away, Zayn has his phone in his hands again. 

[11:08 a.m]

To: Bastards

From: Me

_what the fuck is this?_

_why am I on a plane?_

_you set me up_

Lillian returns with a bottle of water and hands it to him, along with a set of earbuds. He blinks at them in surprise.

“I imagine this might be a boring journey for a young one like you without some music or movies to spend the time,” she says, “Here, don’t worry about giving them back, there’s plenty more where they came from.”

“Oh, thank you. Really.”

“Of course, please call me if you need anything.”

She then makes her way to the cameraman and starts asking if he needs anything.

Zayn’s phone buzzes.

_[11:10 a.m.]_

To: Me

From: Bastards

_Stop it, Zayn. We’re making this decision for your own good._

_You need to put yourself back out there, and this is even better_ _than anything we could’ve hoped for. You should be thanking us._

Zayn sneers, biting the inside of his cheek. 

[11:11 a.m.]

To: Bastards

From: Me

_fuck you_

The message shows it was read, but they don’t deem to respond.

A normal person would have someone to call about this. Someone to freak out to, complain to or cry to. Zayn stares at the names in his phone, hovers over one of them, then scrolls past. _You burnt those bridges, fuck up._

There is someone he can talk to, she promised he could, though he’s yet to take her up on it. He considers it for a moment, and decides that now’s as good a time as any.

[11:12 a.m.]

To: Gigi

From: Me

_hey_

“May I have your attention please,” Lillian says from the front of the plane. “We will be taking off now, please fasten your belts and keep all electronic devices on airplane mode while the aircraft departs. Thank you.” Zayn can hear the tinny _click_ of the cameraman’s seatbelt setting in place, and moves to fasten his own. 

A moment passes, then suddenly the plane jolts to life and they’re crawling in a slow moving circle to get into position on the track. Against his will, Zayn’s thighs tense and his hands clench the armrests. Annoyed, he peels them away and sets about connecting the earbuds instead. Belatedly, he remembers that he’s supposed to be on Airplane Mode, so he does that first, then scrolls through his playlists. Popping each bud into place, he hits play and closes his eyes, letting the loud thrum of Party Monster overwhelm his senses as the jet picks up speed. The lift off is uncomfortable, but nowhere near as terrifying as it had been years ago. 

_This is where the plane does the loop de loop._

Zayn grimaces and turns the music louder, loud enough to drown out the engines and the ghosts in his head.

It takes only moments for the plane to settle in its trajectory in the sky, and by the time it does Zayn returns to his text to Gigi. There’s no response, and he pushes down the ugly feelings that threaten to surface because of it. Then he realizes that she might have responded and he wouldn’t know, because he’s on a fucking plane and he’s a dumbass. 

“Excuse me,” He calls Lillian, who immediately comes to him.

“Do you have wifi on this?” He asks.

“Oh yes, I apologize for not bringing it up sooner. One moment.”

She returns to the front where a shelf was installed in the wall and snags another brochure from it, then makes her way back.

“Here you are, the network and password are listed right here,” she points to the area with a finely manicured nail, and when he nods his affirmation, returns to her seat once more.

It took seconds to get connected, and while the speed was a bit slow it worked. 

Two notifications pop up at the top of his screen.

[11:20 a.m.]

To: Me

From: Gigi

_hey!_

_what’s up?_

Zayn stares at the message for a moment, and feels a strange urge to cry. 

God, he loves this girl. He didn’t deserve her.

[11:21 a.m.]

To: Gigi

From: Me

 _management fucked me over, sent me to be on james corden’s show,_ _and now I’m on a plane to god knows where to do whatever the fuck._

_they packed a bunch of bags and everything._

[11:21 a.m.]

To: Me

From: Gigi

_oh shit_

_you’re joking_

[11:21 a.m.]

To: Gigi

From: Me

_nope_

[11:22 a.m.]

To: Me

From: Gigi

_oh my god_

_you had no idea??_

[11:23 a.m.]

To: Gigi

From: Me

 _they pretty much pulled me right out the car and threw me on_ _the plane. i guess i’ll be somewhere in like 2 ½ hours_

[11:24 a.m.]

To: Me

From: Gigi

_zayn thats so fucked_

_are you ok?_

[11:26 a.m.]

To: Me

From: Gigi

_zayn?_

[11:26 a.m.]

To: Gigi

From: Me

_not really_

_talk to me?_

[11:26 a.m.]

To: Me

From: Gigi

_ofc_

_always_

_so there’s this goat at the farm that tried to eat my heel yesterday_

Zayn smiles at the message. He'll deal with everything when he has to, but for now, he lets himself enjoy her company.

He lets her take him away from it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't have a good reason for taking so long to put this up. I'm a perfectionist who thinks I can write kinda good but also thinks everything I write is shit so I just end up kind of stuck. I can't tell you when the next one will go up, only that I think of this story all the time and continue to work on it, even if i'm not sharing it. I was surprised to see the additional comments on the prologue recently, as old as they are, and guilt-tripped myself into actually sharing something for you. I can't reread it too much or I'll just find everything wrong with it again sooo. Idk I hope it's not that bad. Constructive criticism is always welcome.  
> Now, besides that, I'd like to warn everyone that there is a 50/50 chance of this being either a Gen fic or a Zarry fic so be prepared for one or the other, though that's not something that matters yet.  
> -L


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's like I'm frozen, but the world still turns  
> Stuck in motion, but the wheels keep spinning 'round  
> Moving in reverse with no way out
> 
> And now I'm one step closer to being  
> Two steps far from you"  
> (Infinity)

Zayn spends the next hour and a half talking to Gigi about anything and everything. She’s an easy conversationalist, not put off when he answers bluntly or makes a bad joke, always flowing one topic into the next. He finds himself rubbing a hand over his chest while they talk, soothed by the voice he can hear through the screen and the memory of her touch, how it comforted him. How it comforts him now. 

She talks to him as though he hadn’t ignored her for over a month, since they ended their romantic relationship. It’s more than he deserves, he knows, but he basks in it anyways. Gigi is his anchor. He used to think that no matter what he did, he couldn’t lose her. Despite all the stupid shit he got up to, the fucked up head and the baggage, she never left. 

Until she did.

_“I’m not leaving you Zayn, not really. I love you, and I know you love me.”_

_She closes her eyes and presses her forehead to his, holding his face like precious glass in her hands. Tears stream from her eyes and down his chin._

_“I need you to love you too. Don’t you see? I just- I don’t think this is good for either of us, not the way it is right now.”_

_“Gi,” Zayn doesn’t recognize his own voice, it’s so broken, “don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Not- not you too.”_

_She wraps her arms around him and holds him tight, lets him bury himself in the crook of her neck while his body is wracked with sobs. He hangs onto her like a man drowning._

_“I’ll still be here, Z,” Gigi’s voice becomes strangled on the nickname, and she swallows deeply before continuing. “Just not like this.”_

[12:52 p.m.]

To: Gigi

From: Me

_kirby supremacy_

[12:52 p.m.]

To: Me

From: Gigi

_lies and slander_

_samus for life_

_hey z, im sorry but i gtg for now_

_it’ll be ok. whatever they’re making you do, i’m here_

_ttyl_

[12:53 p.m.]

To: Gigi

From: Me

_ok_

_thank you_

_really_

_love you_

[12:53 p.m.]

To: Me

From:Gigi

_love you_

Zayn stares at the conversation for a while longer, already missing her so much that it hurts. He lets himself wallow for a bit, then sighs and drags a hand across his face, pulling the earbuds from his ears and rubbing life back into them. Earbuds always got so uncomfortable after a while. He’d drawn the window shade closed at the beginning of the flight, but now he opens it and gazes outside once more, squinting against the harsh light. Outside of the plane a landscape of white mountains stretches for miles and miles, leaping and curving and twisting against a backdrop of blue. 

No one would tell him where he’s going, but he found out that if he held his phone close enough to the window his gps app could do it’s best to place him. So far they’d just been going straight up through California, and now they’re just inside of Oregon. He doesn’t know what to do with that information, but he still felt better knowing rather than not. Outside, a particularly fluffy cloud comes into view. Zayn’s fingers itch for a pencil and paper. 

He raises his hand a bit and Lillian, ever vigilant this entire flight, approaches as promptly as usual. 

“What can I do for you sir?”

“Do you have a pen I can use?”

She looks mildly intrigued by the question, but nods. 

“I do. Do you need something to write on as well?”

Now it’s Zayn’s turn to be surprised. He hadn’t expected them to have any and was just going to use the brochure instead.

“Yes, please.”

She fetches his requests and delivers them, as well as a little bag of skittles. 

He thanks her and smiles slightly at the candy. The small notepad ends up on the table in front of him, the pen uncapped, plastic held between his teeth as he thinks for a moment. An idea forms slowly, and he sketches it on the paper aimlessly, not really seeing it as he makes it. Lines glide back and forth across the surface, swirl and thicken, cut off and become dots, zigzags, and darkly shaded areas. He doesn’t know how much time passes while he draws.

At some point the cameraman makes his way to the bathroom, reemerges and goes back to his seat, speaking softly with Lillian. Their voices and the _skritch_ of the pen are a pleasant background sound. Eventually, he looks down again, and actually sees what he’s created. 

Four silhouettes dance in a field of clouds, splashing each other with the sky. Two are tussling near the bottom of the page, a tangle of limbs. He can hear them laughing riotously. Another sits cross-legged atop a cloudy throne and leans on his fist, exasperated with their antics. The fourth has notably long hair that flows behind him like a lion’s mane. He’s simply standing, holding his arms out to the open area.

Waiting for someone out of view to join him.

Zayn’s hand spasms and the pen drops from his fingers. He rips the page from the book and crumples it between his fists, then shoves it into the beanie stuffed beside him in the chair because he doesn’t want to get up or bother Lillian again. 

He snatches the pen up and sets about drawing something else, but now the strokes are fast and shaky. He lost his headspace. After a few more futile attempts and crumpled papers, he gives up and takes to drawing on his hand instead. He fills in the mandala with red ink, then the checkered flag higher up. He connects the symbols on his fingers into an elaborate spiderweb. Soon enough he runs out of tattoos to mess with and twists his hand about, looking for an opening. At the edge of his hand, three faded letters and a number peak out at him sadly. He hesitates, then brings the pen to them too. He re-outlines them until _BUS 1_ stands out distinctly against his pale skin. The ghosts in his head start banging against the bars of their cage a little harder and it hurts, so he moves on quickly. In what feels like no time, his forearm becomes a red and black sleeve of patterns. He’s honestly impressed with the pen, it didn’t do too bad on skin. 

“Hey.”

Zayn startles, and the line he’d been drawing veers sharply off track. He’d been so absorbed in his work that he didn’t even notice the cameraman approach. He jerks his arms to himself and tucks them beneath the table, not wanting him to see his childish doodles. 

It was weird to see the cameraman’s whole face; a broad nose, thick brows and a riot of dyed blond hair. He’s holding his camera to the right of his waist. Zayn looks at it apprehensively, then flicks his gaze back to the man’s face.

“Hey,” he returns.

“We haven’t formally met, sorry. I’m Fin.”

He extends his left hand for a shake. Zayn stares at it, then grudgingly pulls his colorful arm from its hiding place to accept the gesture. Fin merely gives the designs a cursory glance and says “nice,” then, “so I’ve got to ask you these questions before we land. Part of the script. You cool with doing them now?” 

He waves a sheet of paper about as he says it, looking at Zayn expectantly.

Zayn doesn’t really feel like no is an acceptable answer here. 

“Sure, I guess.”

“Great.” 

Fin welcomes himself to the seat on the other side of the table and tosses his paper in front of him. He fiddles with his camera for a second, props his arms on the table, and aims it right at Zayn’s face. A tiny red light blinks menacingly at the top of the device.

“So, how are you feeling Zayn?” Fin asks.

 _You wanted to wait for me to cool off before asking that,_ Zayn realizes, and well, he can’t fault the man. 

“Ehm, I’m just confused. A little worried, ‘cus like, I’ve got no idea what’s happening. But, uh, yeah?”

“Okay. What do you think is happening, where do you think you’re going?”

Zayn grabs his phone and pulls up the gps, then flips the screen so Fin can see it.

“I mean, no one’s telling me but I know we’re at least over Oregon. Lillian,” he waves his phone in the general area of where Lillian was, “told me this flight’s supposed to take two and a half hours, so I don’t think we’re stopping here. I don’t know if we’re going to Washington or somewhere in Canada, but those are my guesses. Am I right?”

“That’s cheating,” Fin states blandly, and doesn’t answer Zayn’s question. Which Zayn takes to be confirmation.

“What do you think you’re gonna have to do when you arrive wherever you’re going?”

“Ride an elephant,” he says, just as blandly. The man's whole vibe was just so stand-offish, as though Zayn had personally offended him. How could he _not_ respond to it?

“Seriously, please.”

“I’m always serious.”

“Uh huh. Now an actual answer.”

Zayn pursed his lips. Concentrated. 

“Get bit by a radioactive spider and become the coolest person ever.”

Fin sighed, “Whatever, that’s what’s going in then.” He abruptly clicked the camera off, gathered his paper and went back to his own seat. 

_What an ass_ , Zayn thought, _maybe I’d give a shit if you did._

Did he really only have two questions to ask him? Zayn shrugged it off, all the better for him anyways. 

-

The rest of the flight passes quickly enough, and Zayn watches through the window as they descend through the clouds of Seattle into heavy rain. The lights of the city buildings shine bright against the dark backdrop, as does the Space Needle, whose narrow body reaches up into the sky.

He remembers eating dinner there once, years ago. The slow motion spinning floor had offered a view of the city that he’d found beautiful, but he doesn’t remember much else.

The Sea-Tac Airport resides in the shadow of Mount Rainier, a massive white-faced landmark that Zayn can still see through the rain, and the jet settles on the tarmac in front of it. 

The landing is steady enough, and before he knows it Fin is up and ready with the camera again. Lillian is standing in position at the door, ready for polite goodbyes. Zayn gathers his meager belongings from the table, stands and makes his way to the front. There’s no connecting tunnel from the door, but Lillian presents Zayn with an umbrella, smiling as kindly as usual. 

“Thank you for flying with us, circumstances notwithstanding. I hope you have a safe and pleasant journey, Mister Malik.”

“Thank you, I hope you do as well. Wherever you go.”

“My son lives here with his family, so once I see them I’m sure I will.”

Fin stands behind him once more with that borderline irritated/passive-aggressive look again, camera in place, so Zayn hastens to unwind the brolly with quick hands and descend from the aircraft. The wind throws rain sideways at him and chills his bones while he walks.

Him and Fin enter the building at one of the gates and Zayn shakes out the brolly, wrapping it up and immediately looking for a sign to the loo. He doesn’t care if he’s deviating from some set route or disrupting a time schedule, he needs to piss and that’s that. Thankfully, Fin doesn’t put up a fight and follows along. He goes so far as to drop the camera to his waist.

As they walk, numerous people look at Zayn, especially young girls, blushing and giggling and whispering to themselves. He’s used to being stared at and ogled, so he thinks nothing of it as he goes. Until he reaches his destination that is, when he reaches down to undo his fly and is reminded that he’s an absolute moron.

The stupid _outfit_. 

The tight leather wrapped around his thighs and criss-crossing over his torso make him look like a young man that’s just come from a club of distinctly ill-repute. He can only imagine what those children and their parents thought of him as he passed by. 

He does his business quickly, ignoring the stares of other men that come and go, and starts tearing the material from his body. He unfastens some straps successfully, others he just yanks around until they slip off of him. Once it’s all off, he gathers it in a ball and shoves it into the nearest bin. While relieved to have it gone, he can’t help feeling naked without the extra layer. His shirt offers little by way of comfort, and he finds himself wishing for the uncomfortable leather jacket he’d started out with to at least hide in.

Fin waits outside for him, and proceeds to lead the way to wherever they need to go. Zayn settles in behind him, content to maintain the terse silence they’ve settled in. He likes the man better when he doesn’t speak, and imagines he must feel similar. 

They exit glass doors to a pick up/drop off area where a variety of people and their cars await. Some hug loved ones goodbye, dressed in heavy coats and boots, others do the same in bermuda shorts and tank tops. More are embracing those they’ve been apart from with laughter and smiling eyes.

Fin directs him to a nondescript black SUV. A man there has just finished loading Zayn’s bags into the vehicle. He must’ve grabbed them from baggage claim, which is good considering Zayn completely forgot about them. The man reenters the driver’s seat without a glance or word in Zayn’s direction, so he just climbs into the back as quick as he can, placing the brolly on the floor. Fin slides in on the other side, camera still directed at Zayn. 

“This is a three hour ride,” the cameraman says. 

_Shit, this a fucking long trip,_ Zayn thinks _._ He gives Fin a nod of affirmation, then digs into his beanie for the earbuds that Lillian had lent him, intent on escaping the oppressive silence with music.

Once he has them, he pulls the beanie on his head and tugs it over his eyes, curling into the door and hoping sleep will come to him.

-

It does, and Zayn wakes late enough that the sky has turned from gray to inkly black, rain still pounding away at the windshield. Fin is asleep too, head propped on his camera at an odd angle. Zayn stretches his neck a bit, does the same for his arms and legs, and checks the time. 

6:54 p.m. shines back at him, as does a message from management.

[6:30 p.m.]

From: Bastards

To: Me

_Before you freak out, yes, we packed your meds._

Zayn breathes out a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding. It wouldn’t be a problem if he was still going back to the apartment by the end of the day, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen. Good of them to pack that, lest they want Zayn to crash pathetically before he can do whatever James wants with him. 

The car isn’t moving, he notices, and then balks because the car is on a _boat_. Somehow he’d slept through them loading onto a ferry. An island then, that’s where they were headed. 

It’s hard to really see anything, but there are a few lights dotted around the water, and some boats scooting around. 

The ferry eventually docks itself, and the silent driver joins the other cars in pulling onto a small bridge with two square metal supports arching over it. Fin wakes during this, and looks around for a bit before fiddling with his phone.

The drive after that is so quick it catches Zayn off guard. One second they’re driving down a narrow road and Zayn’s looking at houses, and then next they’re pulling into the driveway of one. The driver stops the car about halfway into the drive, then looks at Zayn expectantly. 

Right then. 

He undoes the brolly and holds it up while pulling his stiff body from the car, stretching again. Fin does the same on his side. 

The driver unloads Zayn’s luggage and steps over to Fin to exchange a few words. Zayn takes the opportunity to look at where he’ll apparently be staying. The building is small, but not incredibly so, with white or gray paneled walls and two windows divided by lines of white grilles. The blinds are closed but light shines outward along their edges. 

Zayn looks over at Fin, dutifully recording his every move like usual, and makes his way up the steps. He can hear voices inside, and already anticipates seeing James and his crew sat in the living room, waiting for him with some bizarre explanation to this whole situation. Hopefully whatever comes next isn’t as taxing as the journey so far had been.

He twists the knob on the front door open and steps inside, leaning his brolly into the corner and ready to announce his presence. 

But then he hears a loud, obnoxious hyena-like laugh that stops him in his tracks. A jovial Irish accent joins in. 

Zayn can’t breathe. The ground, is it moving? Fuck, he needs- he’s- what?

His feet turn. He’s not thinking clearly, there’s no distinct sentences or ideas, just a chaotic mesh of feelings and he can’t _breathe. Fuck._

Because nothing in Zayn’s life ever goes the way he means it too, his boots catch on the other shoes in the entryway, shoes he hadn’t noticed because he’s a _fucking_ moron, and suddenly he’s slamming into the door with a loud thud. Conversation abruptly halts, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , there’s footsteps coming over. He needs to leave yesterday, before he sees them, before it’s real. Because it can’t be real. It just _can’t_ be. But his fingers stutter over the door knob senselessly, refusing to cooperate. 

“You lads think James is finally here? I’ll go get him,” Liam says, except it can’t be Liam. Zayn will die if it’s Liam. Why won’t his body fucking _cooperate?_

With a sound as blessed as the pearly gates of heaven opening for a sinner, the knob finally unlatches from the frame and the door flings open and Zayn is practically leaping outside, uncaring of the rain that promptly soaks through his clothes and plasters his hair to his forehead-

“ _Zayn?_ ”

Zayn’s legs skid to a halt in the gravel driveway and he thinks that somewhere inside him he might be screaming, but it’s hard to think past the roaring of his own heartbeat.

“Oh my god, Zayn- I can’t believe you’re here! Bloody hell, what- what are you doing?”

Zayn doesn’t reply. Doesn’t move. If he doesn’t turn, maybe he can keep pretending, as ridiculous as that is.

“Zayn?” Liam says again, and his voice is different now. He sounds- worried. “Mate, come out of the rain yeah? Come inside.” His words are slow now, and pitched in a particular way. It’s like he’s talking to a wild animal. If Zayn turns around, he’d probably see Liam standing on the porch, hand outstretched, brow wrinkled and eyes shining with that horrible kicked puppy look that he always has when he’s concerned.

Zayn wonders if his hugs feel as warm, as safe as they used to. He wonders if he went back onto the porch, Liam would wrap him in one and never let him go. Breathe life back into his hollow bones, bring color back into his empty eyes. 

He wants it so badly that he’s turning around before he even knows what he’s doing. His legs rotate. His eyes drag slowly from the ground, to the steps, to feet clad in red socks, up a pair of casual blue jeans and a plain white T, and finally- there it is. 

That look, so familiar it aches like a wound in Zayn’s chest. His hair’s longer than the last time Zayn saw it, waving over his forehead and dipping in front of a pair of large-frame glasses. He’s got a neatly trimmed beard along his jaw, and a muscular arm with more ink than Zayn remembers held in front of him, getting wet with rainwater. His eyes are wide.

He looks like home.

Zayn feels his face do something, something painful, and Liam is breaking past whatever invisible wall had kept him on wood, bounding onto the drive in those stupid socks. All of Zayn’s previous intentions leave his mind in a rush, and his feet are moving towards Liam too. They collide like ocean waves in a storm, holding onto each other. 

It takes a few moments for Zayn to realize he’s crying. Weak little wheezes and whimpers force themselves from his throat, and he tries to cut them off but they won’t _stop_ so he smothers them in the wet fabric of Liam’s shoulder instead.

Liam hugs him so hard that Zayn’s brittle bones creak under the pressure. He wonders what it’d be like for those strong arms to shatter his bones, cave in his ribs so that they pierce his lungs, his heart, and he can simply bleed out in this cocoon of warmth. It’s a good death, he decides. 

He doesn’t know how long they stand there in the rain, Zayn struggling to come back to himself and Liam holding him through it, a hand to the back of his neck and the other tight around his back, steady as ever. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

The comfortable cocoon cracks and poison seeps its way back in. Zayn can feel it engulfing his shoes, his calves, climbing higher and higher.

Harry, Niall, and Louis stand on the porch, mouths agape and varying emotions displayed plainly on their faces. Zayn sees them, feels his heart threaten to give out once more, but doesn’t get a chance to fight through his muddled thoughts. Louis is the one who snapped, and he experiences none of the benevolent hesitance that Liam did. He’s flying down the steps in the same breath, and Zayn barely has time to weakly push Liam’s thicker body away from his before Louis’ fist is sailing straight into his jaw. His head snaps back and he’s sent to the ground, gravel crunching beneath him and digging into his side painfully. His head spins and the copper taste of blood floods atop his tongue. Louis is on him, legs to either side of Zayn’s narrow waist and murder in his eyes. His fists fly and Zayn just- takes it. 

It kind of feels good, he thinks morbidly, to be hit. It’s like a pathetic, insufficient form of penance. He deserves every punch, every sneered curse, every look of contempt. He tries to look in Louis eyes while he suffers the barrage, but that hatred in them hurts more than the physical blows, so Zayn closes his eyes and tries to tuck his face in the ground to hide because he’s a _coward_ that can’t even give Louis the respect he deserves. The hits come to a sudden stop and Zayn feels Louis get dragged off of him. He opens his eyes again, one of them aching with the telltale promise of swelling. Liam has Louis by the arms, using his strength to withhold the livid man. Louis’s teeth are bared savagely and he writhes in Liam’s arms. 

Niall approaches Zayn in a rush, falling to his knees and looping a hand under his head, cradling it. The other flutters about Zayn’s face, wiping the blood from his lips and running through Zayn’s hair, checking his head where it’d slammed into the ground initially. His fingers come away wet with blood and his frowns deeply. Brief inspection complete, he tilts back on his knees and sighs. He looks- Zayn doesn’t know. Tired? Angry? Sad?

“Hey mate,” he says, surprisingly quiet. Niall’s not someone who should be quiet, Zayn thinks, he’s bright and loud and Irish. “You’re just a mess aren’t ya. The hell are you wearing?”

_Oh_ , Zayn thinks, _you should’ve seen_ _the stupid leather harness from James._

“You’re not blond,” his mouth says instead. 

Niall blinks. Laughs ruefully, and carefully lifts Zayn upright. “Nah mate, haven’t been blond for years.”

_Years_.

You’d know if you still had any part in his life. 

“Do we need a hospital?” Harry drawls from somewhere behind Niall. Zayn tilts his head and there he is, leaning on his heels with his hands in the pockets of his shiny, floral patterned slacks. The rain slicks the white dress shirt to his chest like a second see-through skin, hugging the planes of his pecs, highlighting the swallows beneath his collarbone and the butterfly sprawled on his stomach. His hair takes to the rain as though it was styled that way, clumps of dark strands brushing against his cheekbones. He looks like he’s posing for a wet photoshoot, not watching his mate beat the snot out of a loser from his past in the drive. 

He looks amazing. Zayn wonders what Harry thinks when he looks at him.

Then he laughs self-deprecatingly inside because he already knows. He leans over and spits the blood in his mouth to the side, then snorts inelegantly a few times to try and clear up his nose.

“No,” he says in answer, the same time Niall says, “I dunno, his head looks pretty bad.”

Zayn frowns and brings a hand up to feel himself. Sure, everybody was blurring in and out a bit, but that happened often enough that surely it’d go away soon. He hisses when his fingers graze the offending area, scaling what feels like a small cut and an incredibly sensitive bruise. 

A few feet away, Louis has calmed down enough that he seethes quietly. 

“Let me go Liam,” he snaps, and Liam reluctantly does, watching him closely and angling his body in front of where Zayn sits. Louis snaps his arms in front of him, stretching out the joints Liam had strained. There are bloody scrapes on his knuckles, he must’ve rammed them into the gravel too. He takes one look at them, then at Fin, who Zayn had completely forgotten. The cameraman gapes at the dramatic scene before him. Louis speeds over to him, snatches the big camera out of the man’s hands and, ignoring his shocked yelp, wrenches out the memory device. Once done, he tosses it to the ground and crushes it beneath his foot. When the card is an unrecognizable twist of technology, he throws the camera to the ground as well. It shrieks unpleasantly as Louis stomps it over and over beneath his shoes, picking it up and throwing it down repeatedly. He slams it one last time, then throws it into the untamed grass nearby.

“ _Fuck off_ ,” he hisses at Fin’s horrified face, then storms back into the house without another word. Fin looks at all of them as though they’re monsters, not just four young men in the rain, and stumbles back up the drive. He whips out his phone as he goes, rapidly dialing a number and putting it to his ear. 

“I need to talk to James. NOW!” Zayn hears before rain and distance absorb his words.

Harry lingers for a moment, considering. 

“Zayn,” he says, flat. His face is blank.

“Harry,” Zayn instinctively says in the same tone. He feels bereft, without an anchor. What should he say? The silence stretches on. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Harry has already turned back to follow Louis inside. He closes the door behind him. 

All three of them watch the door shut, then look to each other. 

“Right then,” Liam says, crouching down beside them and taking hold of Zayn’s shoulder. His fingers cover practically the entire length of the muscle. “Zayn? How many fingers am I holding?” He displays two fingers.

“Two,” Zayn snaps, “Don’t be daft Liam, as if his little ballerina hands could do that much damage.”

Liam raises a brow, unimpressed. “Those little ballerina hands are the reason your face looks like a skid mark and there’s blood everywhere, so excuse me for expressing concern.”

“Frankly mate, it looks like a strong gust of wind might knock you right down,” Niall adds unhelpfully. Zayn glares at him, and the Irishman shrugs.

“Fuck you, I’m fine,” Zayn spits. To prove it, he clambers to his feet, but okay, maybe he’d over estimated, because the world turns and then he’s being held up by the both of them, legs uncooperative. The blinding pain retreats after a moment and he releases a tense breath through his teeth, shoves their arms off him and tries again. This time his legs wobble but hold him steady. He shoots a triumphant gaze their way, but they just look sad. 

It’s like pouring ice-water on a sleeping man. 

What the hell is he doing?

He’s with the boys, he’s standing in front of them, talking to them, touching them. It’d felt like a dream, and he was already slipping into old mannerisms. 

The blood in his mouth tastes thick and cloying. His head aches. Now that he’s on his feet and looking, he sees it. The distance in Niall and Liam’s eyes, the way they held him enough to support him but no more. Liam must have lost himself in the memories too at first, embraced Zayn like the brother he knew and not the backstabbing traitor he’d become. His eyes, while concerned, are no longer warm. He’s remembered, what Zayn never forgets. Him and Niall look unsure of themselves, unsure of what to do with this mess that just landed in their laps.

Zayn decides for them. It was unfair of him to put them in this position, after all. To ruin their camaraderie, bringing up the skeletons which surely they were content to keep locked in a closet at the bottom of the cellar. 

The mask slides into place.

“There a working bathroom in there?” He asks.

“Of course,” Liam says, confused, “Zayn, you probably need a-”

“Okay, just let me get my things from the car.” 

“What?”

For some reason moving his legs is like trying to direct chopsticks, but Zayn forces them to obey him and ultimately they cowe to his will. Once at the SUV that drove him here, he makes eye contact with the driver. The man looks as impassive as ever. Maybe he’s a robot, or an alien, Zayn muses, moving on. In the back seat is Fin, speaking fast into the phone and all but ignoring Zayn again. 

Zayn pops the back and sets about tugging his suitcases from the vehicle. There’s three, a hard-case and two duffle bags. He settles one duffle over the suitcase handle and tugs the other on his shoulder. They feel like they're filled with iron instead of clothes. 

He clicks the button to close the door. The car shoots into motion not a second after it latches, backing up the drive and turning onto the mains treet, then disappearing out of sight.

_Wow_ , Zayn thinks, and hopes that’s the last he sees of Fin-the-angry-cameraman. 

Liam and Niall are staring at him as stands there, looking like they want to do something but not knowing what. Their indecision sees Zayn gritting his teeth and climbing the front steps to the house. Once up he turns to them.

“Where am I at?” He asks, resigned. 

“Um, the room in the back, with the red door I guess? But really Zayn-”

“Thank you,” Zayn says. He looks at both of them as he says it. Liam’s mouth clamps shut.

Thank you for being kind. Kinder than I deserve.

“You guys can go up now. I’ll stay out of your way.”

With that, he opens the door and makes his way inside. The building is quiet, and he knows he’s alone in there. The french doors at the back are slightly open. He kicks his dirty boots off and leaves them at the entryway, stepping forward.

He doesn’t really take in any details of the house as he goes, other than it being rather open concept. He’s on a mission for the bedroom with the red door. To the right of some french doors along a windowed back wall is a sliding door painted a light shade of red. He heads there and pushes the door aside. The wall of windows extends into this room as well. Inside is an incredibly plain bedroom with soft turquoise walls, a queen size gray bed and a nightstand. A tall, narrow shelf to the side is the only other furniture in the room. 

He drops the duffels at the foot of the bed and sets about unzipping the case. Inside, a plethora of black fabric awaits, neatly folded and sorted by clothing type. Without looking too hard, Zayn grabs a change of clothes and throws them atop the bed. Moving on, he unzips one of the duffels. Inside is just more clothes and toiletries. He snags the shampoo and body wash, then moves onto the other. A large ziploc bag of medicine and a pack of Marlboros settles in his hands, and he feels a sense of ease settle in him at finally being able to touch them and know they’re there. Beneath the medicine lies more of his personal effects, the most notable being his sketchpad, two notebooks and a nintendo switch. He dumps the meds on his bed and shuffles around for a bit, plucking three items out and sliding the rest back into the bag, tucking the whole thing beneath the bed frame. 

With all his items in hand, Zayn heads out of the room and searches for a bathroom. He finds it near the basic looking kitchen and sets about turning on the shower faucet, peeling his clothes off while the water heats. The clothes fall to the tiled floor in wet, dirty heaps. He’ll have to wipe the floor when he’s done. 

Unfortunately, a rather large mirror hangs above the sink, and Zayn is incapable of avoiding his own reflection.

He looks like shit.

The carefully crafted doll from just that morning has shed its guise for an unforgiving glance at Zayn’s true visage. His hair doesn't fall perfectly like Harry’s, instead dangling limply around his ears. His skin looks sickly pale in the bathroom’s harsh light and with the makeup washed off. Blood from Louis’ rage decorates his lips and comes out of his nose a bit, trailing down his neck from the wound in his hair. Bruises are already forming on his cheekbone and over his left eye. Aside from the mess that is his face, the rest of him is illuminated as well. His bones poke taught against his skin, and seeing it disgusts Zayn so much he nearly punches the glass to be rid of the image, but he resists the urge. He drags his eyes away instead, popping the caps to the medicines and swiping out a tablet and three pills. He consumes them at the same time, chasing them with a handful of water. He knows the effects don’t kick in immediately, and that this combination is particularly stupid, but just the motion of swallowing them feels like relief in itself. 

That done, he crouches down to dig around the cabinets. Sure enough, the house has a first aid kit stowed away with the cleaning supplies. He tugs it out and flips it open to retrieve the bandages and ointments he needs, laying the supplies out on the counter. A cursory glance at the shower shows that it’s steaming, so he tugs a towel from the cabinet as well, sets it on the toilet lid, and climbs into the tub. 

The water hits his back at a scalding temperature and he hisses, arching away from it, but doesn’t turn it down. Soon enough his skin goes numb to the heat, and he sets about cleaning himself. Blood and dirt swirls its way down the drain in lazy rivulets. He only remembers the doodles on his arm when he raises a hand to scrub it down, and works extra hard to make sure the red ink disappears. _BUS 1_ fades away. 

His shower is fast and harsh, and he climbs out after only a few minutes. He dries and dresses quickly, infinitely more comfortable in loose black sweats and a large black t-shirt than he was in his earlier get up. He can hear voices outside the door again, and dutifully ignores them while dressing his wounds. Clotting had done most of the work already by this point, but he still takes care to clean out his nostrils, apply ointments to his split lip and head, then tape a small piece of gauze to the wound so it wasn’t disturbed while he slept. Deeming his doctoring sufficient and already noticing the effects of his meds slowing his movements, turning everything kind of light and fluffy, he cleans up shop. 

He uses an extra towel to wipe the floor, then kicks it into the corner along with the dirty clothes to be dealt with later. It’s sloppy, but Zayn’s beyond caring. He leaves the soap in the shower too. With medicine tucked away in his pockets, he takes a deep breath and braces himself to go back out. Makes sure the mask is in place. 

He just has to make it to his room, sleep and deal with the rest of this bullshit situation later.

Another long, deep breath. A moment to close his eyes and feel the drugs work, then open them again.

He opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Blurry TV screens  
> Fuzzy broken scenes  
> Finding words don’t have flow  
> -  
> Hearts don’t feel the same  
> And the names we like to say  
> Change with time and age"  
> (Scripted)

Zayn makes it a whole two steps out of the bathroom before his hopeful plan gets shot to shit. 

The hall allows for a view of the back of the living room, and consequently the arm of the sofa in which Liam’s sat on. He’s facing the hall with his hands in his lap and obviously waiting for Zayn to re-emerge, given the way he perks up.

Zayn kisses the dream of blissful sleep goodbye.

“You took an awful long time in there, you sure we don’t need to call someone?” That scrunched up expression of worry is practically a permanent fixture at this point. 

“No,” Zayn sighs, approaching the other man, “it doesn’t need stitches or anything.” 

Liam worries his lip harder, obviously doubtful. The two livid bruises on Zayn’s face probably aren’t helping his case much, but they aren’t close enough friends where he can push it anymore. Liam backs off with a huff, grudgingly trusting Zayn’s judgement. 

“Alright, at least let me get some ice or something. Don’t go anywhere, shit.” He runs a hand through his hair and moves for the kitchen.

His vacancy reveals Niall sprawled across the cushions of the same sofa, staring at the ceiling. On the other side of the room are two recliners, one taken by Harry, who appears as unbothered as ever. He meets Zayn’s gaze easily when he looks over, which spooks Zayn so he quickly diverts his eyes to the last man. The other recliner is empty. Louis is sat on the hardwood floor, leaning between Harry’s knees and resting scraped and swollen hands atop his own propped knees. He’s looking vacantly at the air in front of him, methodically opening and closing a small black switchblade. His eyes flick to Zayn as though he can feel the weight of his stare, and he holds Zayn captive in his sights while his knife slides open with another metallic _swick._

_Jesus fuck, ‘cus that’s not fucking terrifying or anything_ . _Why do you even have a knife?_

Zayn swiftly looks elsewhere. In between both seating areas the small fireplace is now roaring modestly. The snaps and pops of the wood and steady thrum of rain outside are the only sounds in their room.

“Where’re the fucking towels?” Liam calls from the kitchen, banging cabinets about. 

“How should I know?” Niall yells enthusiastically. Harry and Louis say nothing. There’s an annoyed groan in response. 

“Never mind, you ass. I found them.” 

A few more seconds of tense silence. Liam returns with a small, lumpy blue dish towel. Zayn takes it without objection, obediently holding it against his head. He feels ridiculous, and embarrassed for some reason, but he can’t deny that the coolness is nice on the inflammation. Liam resumes his seat on the couch. 

More silence. The fire gives a particularly loud _Pop!_

Harry sighs exaggeratedly and flicks imaginary dust off of his thigh. Louis’s knife continues _swick_ -ing. Niall purses his lips and trills at the ceiling. Liam looks between them all long sufferingly, then squares his shoulders as though bracing himself for battle. He might as well be, really. 

“So, let’s lay out the facts. James orchestrated this, obviously. And our PR managers. I looked around for cameras once I saw his note on the bar, and as far as I can tell there aren’t any. Louis and Niall gave it a go, didn’t find anything either, not even mics. Harry just sat on his ass like usual, even though we could’ve used his stupid giraffe legs to check the ceiling lights instead of nearly killing ourselves on the dining chairs.” Harry flashes his dimples pleasantly at that. Liam glares at him, but there’s a fondness to it. 

“Anyways,” he waves his arm toward the bar and Zayn twists around to see a large plastic tub atop it, “I found that thing. Six go-pros and microphones, tripods and some attachment stuff I don’t know how to work. Then we found _this-_ ” he hefts a large black binder from the coffee table, leafing it open at random. The first page is a full-sized picture of James, smiling gleefully with badly edited confetti and shooting star designs. Past it, every page Liam shows is almost blank, save a few lines and a large QR code. “He wants us to scan this and connect our phones to the TV so we can watch an instructional video everyday.” He flips back to the second page. “This one’s an introductory video that we’re supposed to watch as soon as we’re settled in on arrival.” 

Liam glances warily between Louis and Zayn, at the clear signs of their struggle. Louis’s hands could be hidden, but Zayn’s face… 

“Who says I have to comply with any of this? My phone’s still got connection, I can just contact someone to get me or leave whenever,” Zayn couldn’t be the only person who’d thought of that. This plan was shit, and full of loopholes. They all had lives and family, or at least careers, to get back to. Shit, Liam and Louis had actual _children_.

Louis snorts. “Please do.”

Liam ignores him, frowning towards Zayn. “What do you mean? We all signed contracts agreeing to James' conditions before doing this. The only thing that’s a surprise is really, well, you instead of James.”

Zayn blanches. “What? What contract?”

They all stare at him. Liam’s face is going to get stuck that way if he frowns so much. 

“Really? ‘A lake house getaway over the summer, activities and games and publicity haza’ for our ten year anniversary? The Late Late One Direction reunion special? We’re bound here for the duration of the shoot and required to do what James has requested, or we’ll be fined a shit ton of money and dealing with whatever other consequences. Not that I really had a problem with it, I get why he has to put the specifics in hard writing.” 

Zayn stares uncomprehendingly. 

Niall sits up on the sofa, swinging his legs towards the floor. “What did you think you were here for?”

“I-,” Zayn’s glad he took the drugs when he did, they’re helping him mute the utter powerlessness he feels crawling under his skin. “They just- I was in his car, for the karaoke, and then he put me on a plane and left.” Another beat of silence.

“That’s fucked,” Niall says simply. “Maybe you can leave, then? If you didn’t sign anything. I dunno.”

“No,” Zayn says with hollow certainty, “I remember it now, was probably just drunk or something when I did it.” Louis snorts in disgust and Niall shakes his head disappointedly.

Lies. Management signed it. He has no evidence, but he knows it’s true. He doesn’t need to tell them that though, they’d point out some bullshit about it being unethical or controlling or something. Management has the authority to do that, they don’t need his permission for anything, not since he fucked himself up so much that he can’t even be trusted to make his own decisions. They say to sing certain words, he says what pitch? They say to wear these clothes, he says how tight? They say he’s doing an interview with James, he says what day? It sounds kind of bad like that, and maybe dehumanizing, but that’s just what the people who don’t understand think. Zayn knows, knows in the very marrow of his frail bones, that without their help he’d be just another news story by now. Found naked on the bathroom floor, vomit all over his chest and piss and shit stuck to his legs, grey and stiff with death. 

That doesn’t mean it makes it any easier for him to swallow this time. He stills feels rage, and horror, and loathing so thick it nearly brings him to his knees. He’d thought of what it’d be like to see the boys again. Fantasized about it obsessively. Would he bump into someone at an award show? Could he go to a concert, bring some cheesy flowers and deliver them backstage? Would one of them call him, or shoot him a text asking to catch up? Would _he_ reach out to _them_ , and be received with open arms? Would they leave him on read? Tell him to fuck off? Block him without comment?

For all his musings, he never imagined it’d be like this. He never wanted it to be like this. Management took his fantasies from him and smeared shit all over them instead.

_But without this, I might never have gotten to see them again at all. I should be grateful, really._

“Just set up one of the cameras and put the video on Li,” Harry finally contributes, “He can stay out of shot and say something every now and then to prove he’s here.” He says it like the whole situation is incredibly tedious, and it has the effect of making Zayn feel guilty. They had a whole _plan_ , and he’s ruining it literally just by breathing the same air. Surely they were all excited before, looking forward to hanging out together and goofing off, acting like the kids they were when this all started. With him there, no one was smiling or laughing.

He nods over at Harry in acknowledgement of his idea, but the curly haired lad doesn’t spare him the light of day. He’s playing with Louis’s hair, patting out a thoughtless tune against his skull. Louis doesn’t seem to mind.

Liam and Niall agree with it too, it’s already past midnight and they’ve apparently got to wake up and watch another one in the morning. There’s a whole timetable.

A few minutes are taken to arrange things. Niall finagles the camera onto a tripod and sets it on the coffee table, figuring out the best angle while Liam, Harry and Louis arrange themselves on the sofa, leaving a gap for Niall. Zayn stays in his spot against the wall, leaning into it now. The pills were _really_ kicking in now, he didn’t have much time left before he’d be slurring incomprehensibly and losing himself to the darkness. He needed this to be done soon so he could finally retreat without gaining suspicion.

They talk amongst themselves, consulting the binder notes, probably a script, and Zayn realizes that they’d changed outfits earlier too. He hasn’t seen another bathroom yet, and if there’s not one upstairs that means none of them got to wash off like him, hogging the bathroom as he was. The guilt returns.

“Okay, this is good. Ready lads?” Niall says. 

A chorus of affirmations sound. Like the talented actors they are, suddenly the oppressive atmosphere and tension dissipates behind a front of goofy enthusiasm. They boys plaster grins to their faces as Niall hits record on the device. The sight nearly wounds Zayn, because even though he knows it’s fake, that he himself has done that many times, every time he’s in front of a camera, it looks so _real_. He vehemently wishes their joy was authentic, and that he was a part of it.

Harry sits on the far left of the sofa, Louis beside him. Niall situates himself between Louis and Liam, and they wait a moment for Liam to turn on the tv and connect his phone. Once it’s done, he scans the code and clicks the resulting link. On the TV, a still of James’s empty desk appears behind a white triangle. That sorted, Liam sets his phone on his knee and takes a deep breath. 

“Hey guys! We’re One Direction, in case you didn’t know,” the boys laugh appropriately at his lame humor, jostling him about, “and we’re REUNITED!”

They all dissolve into hoots and hollers, fist pumping and doing little dances against each other before calming down again. 

“James, the almighty himself, is airing this on his show, but you guys,” Harry leans forward on his elbows, expression so earnest and warm that even Zayn feels flustered, “our fans, whether you’ve been here since the X-Factor or just discovered us yesterday, you’re the reason we get to do what we do. The reason we get to be here today. I haven’t seen my boys in months, and I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity! I’m sure you’re looking forward to it as well.” He breaks into a crooked grin while he speaks, throwing an arm around Louis’s head and trapping him in a headlock that has Louis squawking and scrambling about. 

They continue giving off-hand jokes and such for a few more seconds before Niall corrals them onwards. “Alright, anyways, we’ve got a video from James to watch, but before we do that, there is something else we have to point out! I know you’re thinking about it, so we’ll say it: Zayn is here too!”

He looks over at Zayn as he says it, smiling affectionately like everything between them was normal. He waves a hand in his direction, saying to the camera, “he’s literally standing like, six feet away, up against the wall there.” 

“Before any of you freak out about it,” Louis butts in, to Zayn’s surprise, "he’s tired ‘cus he had a long trip here and he doesn’t want to show himself all frumpled. _Zayn is vain_ , remember?” He smiles at Zayn while he says it, and his heart fills with ice. To everyone else, that’ll probably be received as a heartwarming inside joke. Zayn hears it for the snide insult that it is. “Say something Z, before the fangirls kill us.”

“Ehm- hi?”

Liam folds his head into his hands and groans. The others laugh. 

“A little more please, we’ve got to prove you’re not like a pre-recorded sound bite from some random clip four years ago,” Niall says, “Sing the lyrics to Justin Bieber’s _Baby_.”

“ _What?_ No-” _I can barely speak right now, fuck, don’t make me, stop it- please._

“Do it! Do it! Do it!” Louis chants, and Niall and Harry pick up on it too. 

Zayn relents, shrinking himself into the wall like doing so matters. He clears his throat a bit, then badly sings, “ _Baby, baby, baby oh. Like-_ uh, um- _Like baby, baby, baby no_.”

Niall blinks at him, “Wow. That was actually quite horrible, what the hell Z?”

Zayn flushes with shame, averting his eyes. The edges of his vision are turning black now.

“Wait!” Harry cries dramatically, “It’s not enough proof. Zayn, stick your hand over here. Twist it so we can see your tat- yeah! Perfect.” He turns to the camera. “See? He’s right there. Li, slap him so they know it’s not like, photoshop either. We know how crazy some of you can get, we’re pulling out all the stops.” Liam reaches over the armrest to clap a high-five across Zayn’s palm. “See? In the flesh!”

The clap is innocent enough, a bit forceful with how Liam had to propel himself, but because the person he’s touching is _Zayn_ , the impact sends pins and needles racing so sharply through his entire arm that Zayn nearly cries out, yanking the limb back towards his chest. Fuck it _hurts,_ what the _fuck_? Tears well in his eyes, rapidly and without mercy. Liam doesn’t notice, he’d turned away right after. None of the others do either, caught up continuing their little narrative. They’d moved onto talking about their journey to the house, how excited they are to see what James has in store for them and more. Zayn takes rapid, frantic breaths to try and wait out the pain, forcing the tears back. The sensation fades, and he’s left grasping the wall with weak fingers, wondering if there’s something wrong with him. There’s no way that was normal, it felt like Liam ripped his damn arm off. He can’t hear the guys very well anymore, their words are blurring together. He’s out of time, there’s no way- they haven’t even started the damn video yet, and he can read that it's at least twelve minutes long- or, maybe that says thirteen? Or seventeen? Fuck, it doesn’t matter, it’s double digits. Too long. Zayn drops his ice towel to the ground and stumbles out from the hallway, hanging onto the backs of the recliners while skirting behind the camera. The boys halt, looking at him questionably. 

“Zayn? Where are you going?” Liam asks.

“Bed.”

“The fuck?”

“Louis!”

“Oh for the love of- they can just edit it,” he hisses at Niall, then looks back at Zayn. “The video hasn’t even started yet you bastard.”

“Don’t care.”

“You _don’t care?_ You fucking-”

“Zayn, come on, don’t be like that.”

“Sorry. M’tired.”

“And you think we aren’t?”

“Didn’t give you a fuckin’ concussion though, did I?” That was hard to get out, his tongue thick and sluggish. He's not exactly sure he did it right, then decides he doesn't care. 

“A _concussion?_ ” Liam cries in alarm.

“Oh fuck off with the dramatics, I didn’t even hit you that hard. Pansy ass bitch.”

“Louis, stop that.”

“Just watch it,” _I’ll catch up tomorrow_ , he tries to say, but words fail. Time to go. He makes it into his bedroom hall and lets go of the wall, deciding speed is better than dexterity now. He slams into his doorway at first, then tilts his way into the room, hastily pushing the door into place and clicking the lock. Just in time too; footsteps come pounding towards him, and a fist knocks into the other side with urgency. 

“Open the door Zayn!” Liam, of course. Zayn drops his head against the door and groans quietly. Should’ve just kept his mouth shut, God, why is he such an idiot-

“You said you were okay!”

“I am!” Zayn insisted. “Lou’s right, just being dramatic. I’m tired Li, go away.”

“ _I don’t believe you-_ ”

“I’m _fine-”_

 _“_ Let me check you! We can call someone, a doctor-”

“Agh! Just- _Fuck off Liam!_ We’re not friends, I don’t want to talk to you! Just _leave me alone._ ”

Finally, quiet. Liam’s feet take a few steps back, then retreat back the way they came. Zayn whimpers, cradling his head in his hands. It's hot, and pounding like it wants to push his eyeballs out of their sockets. It hurts so much, despite the pain meds, yelling is making it all worse. And he's so tired, he should’ve been sleeping twenty minutes ago with the pills, but he’d been _fighting_ it. And now instead of ease there's just exhausted pain. He collapses forwards onto the mattress, unable to even move the sheets aside and slide in, or take off his socks. He _hates_ sleeping in socks. His head hits the pillow and the coolness of it is like heaven on his scalp and bruised cheek. Zayn sinks into it gratefully, ready to disappear. At least for a little while. Maybe forever. He didn’t take enough for that to happen though, and he’s not thinking about it seriously. It’s just there, an idea as normal as whether or not to eat eggs or toast for breakfast. It comes and goes.

It’s when he’s finally laying in bed like that, right on the cusp of blessed unconsciousness, that the realization comes to him unbidden, like a slap to the face. 

_They planned the reunion without me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guyyys, we've been fed so well these past couple weeks. The album, the promos, the baby's name (it's Khai for anyone who doesn't know yet!). My favorite song is Sweat, what about you?
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this! I moved into my dorm on the 9th and have been getting acclimated to classes and such. I know that this a small chapter, and probably really disappointing, but I liked ending it here and I have to set up some more stuff before I can continue. Hit me with ideas for things James might have the boys do if you have any, I've got a bunch lined up but extra brain power is always welcome. 
> 
> I hope you guys are okay with how things are progressing so far, lmk if you find any errors because I'll go back in and murder them with an axe.
> 
> EDIT: If you saw me spell Niall's name wrong this entire chapter- no you didn't.


End file.
